“Nor does she, barber.” The Lord remarked not awfully promptly, more of a passing comment. No, the woman downstairs wasn’t bothering him. Nothing was, actually. His dull conscience not letting the man bother with such fickle acts as mourning, not even for his own flesh and blood. His only flesh and blood. He was the last Crane now, and even though he grieved at the thought of his name and teachings not continuing, it was better comfort knowing that Ichabod could no longer be tainted as long as he remained in the afterlife. That woman, those fiends, could not degenerate him more then they already had. What a wretched, disobedient man they had turned him into. No, it was better now that God watched him.
He craned his neck, glaring up at the dusty ceiling as he allowed for the barber to continue his charge. Not for a moment considering the deadly endangerment he was exposed to as he let the razor glide up and down the surface of his skin. Not even realising how close Todd was getting, razor in hand as he kept his head up, eyes half-shut. Not for a moment realising that he was, in a very moment, about to join his wife and son in death ..
.. when the door to the shop chimed.
The elderly man instantly frowned, irritated at his interrupted state of relaxation. As Todd eased away, the Lord looked in the direction of the intrusion – and his face struck a new shade of white. A spector in the doorway, Ichabod’s spirit come to haunt him. Crane slowly crept out of the chair, as if a sudden movement would trigger the ghost to enrage. He waited for the ghost to speak, but all he saw was an expression of infuriation. A face of flesh and blood, alive. Ichabod was alive.
“Ichabod …. “ The Lord said in an undertone, briefly forgetting Todd. “But … you are dead.”
He said it as if he were telling him, not asking him.
Vincent looked up. He wanted to scream, "I'm Vincent Price," but snapped out of it.
"Pfft," He sighed. "I once had a mother, God rest her head. Now she sleeps below the flower bed. She became sick and very depressed until the day we lay her to rest." It seemed as if Vincent was lying. He was, sort of. To him his mother, his wife, they were all dead. He was alone. That might not be true, but in his head it was real.
"I was walking the streets in the pouring rain when suddenly a wonderful smell came. I was craving something tasty and hot and I then came across your lovely pie shop!" Vincent put on a smile. He noticed this woman was a bit uneasy and he just wanted to see her happy. After all, dark people like him and her deserve to be happy.
"Pardon me ma'am but it seems a shame. We've been talking a while and I don't know your name!" Vincent said, with a childlike smile hoping to lighten her mood.
"My offer for help may seem off the wall but if you need any help you know who to call!" Vincent took another bite of the pie. It was delicious. He planned on staying in her for a bit.
"Pardon me ma'am but do you think I could trouble you for something to drink?" Vincent pulled the coins out from his pocket, wondering what he owed.
(Sorry for all the talking... just trying to make it interesting lol)
To mistaken the young man in the doorway for a specter was not to be blamed, for that moment he depicted an image of the spirit world. Willow-white face stern and black hair sticking to his face sodden by the rain, a chilling wind blowing past him as he entered the shop. He took a step forward, leaving the parlour door open behind him and stopping a distance away from the barber, and his father. They were both rather taken aback, Todd harbouring more solemnest , but Ichabod’s attention was too far from the barber to notice. He waited, refusing to speak a word until his presence was acknowledged. And it was.
The constable spoke in a low tone. 'I see I was talked about,' He said, remembering how Mrs.Lovett had fled to him in her relief at the sight of him. Noting the men's aghast faces. 'Or rather, my death was talked about.'
He mocked, stressing the spurious word as his black eyes shot to his father. A deep frown on his brow, 'No, I shall ask the questions.' He said with abit of a sudden shake of the head, wet hair flying. 'For starts, how many times is your God willing to forgive you?'
The man would know exactly what he was talking about, but whether the barber would be left in the dark he didn't think about. 'How many times?'
Vincent began to answer Mrs.Lovett's question rather quickly and rhythmically, divluging that his mother was indeed, alive no longer. "Oh dearie, I'm terribly sorry..." the pie maker began softly. She was quite accustomed to being surrounded with rather sad characters, and it seemed Vincent was no different. Miserable, unfortunate, done in by life and all its inconveniences...hell, inconvenience was an understatement.
The pie maker snapped herself out of these thoughts delightfully, after the young boy flattered her and her pies. "Why thank ye," she mumbled with an appreciative smile.She was then asked her name.
"Name's Mrs.Lovett, son."
Vincent then added that he would be quick in her aid anytime she needed it, though the pie maker was confident she wouldn't be coming to a young boy with her overbearing problems. Poor thing had enough to deal with on his own, as it seemed. Mrs.Lovett nodded in response to his request for a drink, rising from her seat and heading towards the counter.
"I 'ope gin or ale is fine, 's all I've got..." she murmured, holding the bottles of both drinks in her hands. "Take yo' pick." She awaited his answer quietly.
« Last Edit: Jul 17, 2009, 10:54pm by Mrs. Lovett »
Sweeney kept his disheartened gaze downwards as the constable and his father spoke, his razor at his side. He couldn't believe it. He had all the reason in the world to kill this man. He would not be missed. And yet again, he missed his opportunity. He was tempted to rush Ichabod out of there so he could finish the job but it would be no use. Ichabod would not leave now. Not after his father had lied about his death.
He stood where he was, unmoving, listening to the both of them, trying not to outwardly act on his distress and his thoughts of pushing Ichabod out of the door. But he couldn't help himself but try. He knew by the look on Ichabod's face that he wouldn't be too disappointed in Crane's death himself.
"Maybe you two should settle this as another time..." He said, looking up at Ichabod, his head still slightly downwards, his words slipping lowly through clinched teeth.
Vincent smiled as he took another bite of pie. Mrs. Lovett he thought. He'd better remember this name. Mrs. Lovett came out with two bottles. Vincent had never had either. He shrugged suggesting that Mrs. Lovett pick the drink for him. He turned his head down to finish up the rest of his pie. Upon the last bite he realized that his mouth was very dry. He couldn't wait for his drink.
(I don't even know where to start apologizing for how much I've held this up)
The elder Crane did not remain shaken out of his complacency for long, his favourite frown striking upon his face. Not an inch of remorse, relief and not a whiff of an apology. He was slowly becoming just as nettled as Ichabod who was on the warpath. Now that he realised his son was not passed away and at peace as the Lord had thought, he saw that he would have to be dealing with whatever wrath his son had brought behind him in the shop. How ridiculous, and how needless. Ichabod seemed to be blind for the fact that it was entirely his own fault. Had he not interceded, interposed.
“Don’t barge in here and cross swords with me,” The Lord answered, cooling the tempest, rising beast that was his own rage and speaking as calm as a spring morning. “I seek no mercy from the almighty God, my need is naught.” He stopped, voice becoming more and more grim. “Though if I were you, my son, I would get down on my knees now and pray for your own remission of sin.”
Ichabod would know exactly what he meant, there was no need to spurt aloud infront of the barber. How could a man raised with such stringence, with his hand on a bible every waking moment have been so stupid. Willing to give his life for that witch in cat’s clothing. Sin was letting her walk alive and free where she could not be helped in Heaven’s hands, but the mark of Cain would be worn on the man that had the sheer woodheadedness to actually stop her being sent to her salvation. If Ichabod had of died, he would have burned in Lucifer’s flame.
The Lord had acknowledged the barber’s suggestion, nodding slowly as he kept frowning at the younger Crane. “I agree, Mr. Todd. Perhaps Ichabod should take himself elsewhere, and pray the divine being will forgive him.”
Vincent hadn't chosen either drink he desired, so Mrs.Lovett took his indifference as an indication to choose for him. The pie maker returned the gin bottle to its cabinet before she returned, pouring a glass of ale for the boy. She pushed the glass closer to him as her eyes flickered upward, staring beyond into the empty distance. Her expression was vacant, but inside, her emotions were stirring and boiling frenetically. She was worried about dear Ichabod, dear Mr.Todd, and the demon they both had to face. The scum of the earth, a pig that deserved its rightful home inside a great black pit, rather than to skulk the streets and cause others more pain.
Mrs.Lovett plopped herself down on the bench across from where Vincent sat, her thoughts never wavering from the pandemonium that ought to be happening upstairs. For the time being, the pie maker thought she should accompany the poor, lonely boy. At least Ichabod wasn't confronting Lord Crane by himself, Mr.Todd was there to help if need be...but then again...the barber's version of help wasn't exactly blood-free. It would be too suspicious if he became violent, and Mrs.Lovett prayed that he wouldn't dare to act in such a manner. The constable was there, and despite the pie maker knowing that from the way he snapped at her his anger would be focused on Lord Crane only, chances could not be taken.
Their friendship was too precious.
And thus, she knew she would definitely go up there sooner than later.
Ichabod was taken back to the night he had received his father's bullet. So makeshift was the method of pressing his wrapped-in-cloth hand against the wound to slow the bleeding until he arrived home on Gunpowder's back, the first thing he had done was rummage through his well serving bag. Finding and combining whatever he could to fashion a combination of chemicals that would sterilize him. Sanitizing a wound was terribly important, for infection - and gangrene - were just a stones throw away and twice as awful. Results were painful, but good. The lesion was cleansed and bound in gauze, all it needed was time to heal back into his skin. So sensitive though, especially now as he faced the one that fired the hateful bullet. Ichabod could feel it, burning away under his clothes as though the mere presence of the man aggrivated it. He swallowed the choke that tore up his throat, choosing to try and ignore it.
There wasn't a thing the man wouldn't justify, batting the ball of blame in Ichabod's direction. He tensed, breathing hard through his nostrils. Lord Crane could climb the highest ladder he could find, and that would be the closest thing he would get to his so God. This so exquisite being had turned his back on Ichabod long ago. How could such an essense that doted on his every creation exist when one of his most intense worshippers spirited away such an innocent, so brutally. Ichabod had asked himself that question so, so long ago - and came to his own answer. His faith died, along with her.
'I'm not leaving.' He said cooly, taking a small step in from the doorway and letting the shop door close behind him. 'Not yet.'
Ichabod had noticed that his question went unanswered, 'So you dance around my question?' He said, a flouting touch stroking at his otherwise calm voice. His hands behind his back, he dared another step forward but kept a distance, 'Are you afraid to answer ... '
He paused before finishing, ' .. tyrant?'
(I am so sorry for not involving you somewhere Sweenzie x__x)
Sweeney refrained from gritting his teeth as he heard the door close behind Crane. He looked painstakingly at the altercation, disinterested in hearing family quarrels or any petty arguments about God. He was only interested in one thing. If only Ichabod would shut his mouth for once, he would be happily rid of his 'tyrant' problem. To Ichabod's last word to his father, Sweeney regained his composure and put on a cordial face.
Quickly advancing towards Ichabod, he put a friendly hand on his shoulder. "Dear constable, sir. I beg of you..." He looked into his eyes, those that only seemed to burn holes into Lord Crane. As far as Sweeney was concerned, rightfully so. "Perhaps this confrontation could wait. We are all gentlemen here. I would only think that I should be able to do this man the service...due to him, constable. Afterwards, the time is yours to quarrel. "
He gazed upon Ichabod seriously, his face not showing a hint of jest. But within his dark eyes was impatience, annoyance, and anxiousness.
« Last Edit: Sept 27, 2009, 8:33pm by Sweeney Todd »
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